Thursday, May 8, 2008
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
After a seemingly neverending winter, we've finally hit delicious, precarious spring. I always get a bit giddy when the weather's like this - "balmy", I believe they call it - mostly because I know we've got approximately a half a minute before we're plunged into the stinky summer sweats. I say this every year, but summertime in New York City is the grossest. I'll save my trade for when the temps hit triple digits but suffice it to say that those with the means to flee, do. Being a touch under-moneyed, we're stuck here cooling our heels in the tub. Which brings me to the bigger issue - warm weather maintenance. I've already started my annual hunt for the perfect summer shoe; a Herculean task by any standard. Every year I'm convinced that I'll find it and every year I end up with some sad, clearance rack Aerosoles number. Here's the problem: in my head I'm a ballet flat. Simple, streamlined, effortlessly chic - the type of woman who can pull off a pair of skinny jeans. But in reality? Birkenstock, baby. Actually, I'm not even that cool. I aspire to be Birkenstock. (But only the cute little silver jobbies.) Every summer I gravitate toward the Birks and every summer they end up back on the shelf. For a comfortable shoe, they sure... aren't. I see the little hipsters swanning around in their beat up Birks and gauzy sundresses and get all inspired, but somehow I always end up less Angelina and more Eileen Fisher.
And then there's the whole pedicure thing.
The problem with living in a city where you walk everywhere is that everyone gets a good look at your toes, so naturally you want to make them as inoffensive as possible. That's not so tricky if you're able to motor your way around, but after slopping through the city streets my feet need tiny Hazmat suits. (The first thing I always do when I get home is take off my shoes. If I'm wearing sandals I immediate go to the tub and wash off my feet. You'd be amazed - and probably vomity - at the color of the water when I'm through. If that's what's on my feet, what the hell's in my lungs?) I'd love to get weekly pedicures (I hear that there are women who do. They're probably the same ones swanning around in my Birks) but at $50 a pop after tip, I'm lucky to get one - well I'm not going to say how infrequently I go. Let's just say it's about as often as I buy bathing suits.
Aw, christ. I have to buy a bathing suit.